For You
by Kathryn Claire O'Connor
Summary: When Sherlock goes on the hunt for Moriarty's network, his first move is to call up an old friend. Though Sherlock knew that the following two years would change him, he never expected his thoughts on certain things - or people - to change so dramatically as they had by the time Mycroft retrieves him.
1. Chapter 1

Irene heard about his death; of course she did. The whole world did. Even if you somehow hadn't heard of Sherlock Holmes before now, you certainly heard when he became a suicide-committing fraud. But that didn't mean that she believed what she heard.

And exactly two days after his reported death, she got the proof that she rather desperately craved – not that she was going to admit to how badly she wanted him to still be alive.

_I'm not dead. Let's have dinner. – SH_

_Name the place. – IA_

_McDonalds Harlem NY in 1 hr. – SH_

He knew that she was in New York – of course he'd figured that out – and was in the same town too now, apparently.

Irene was convinced that this couldn't get any better. But it did.

* * *

"I really assumed that you would hate places like this," she said evenly, sliding into the chair across from him at the corner table nearest the exit – the perfect position for surveillance, she noticed appreciatively – exactly an hour later.

"It provides a measure of anonymity that is especially useful when on a mission."

"A mission?" she repeated with raised eyebrows, instantly interested.

If he was supposed to be somewhere on a mission then why was he here, meeting up with her in a greasy fast-food joint?

"The beginnings of one, yes, and I'd like your help."

Ah, there it was. Straight to the point; the same Sherlock she'd met before.

She smiled deviously, asking, "Where do we start?"

* * *

_One year later_

Partners. That's what they were. Colleagues, allies, confederates. Associates, copartners, companions. They were all of those things.

They were more than those things.

Partners. There were so many different definitions of that word, and if you looked at the relationship he now had with Irene from all of its angles, every definition could fit them. Except for one.

Spouse.

That they were not.

In a way they had with time become "the person with whom one cohabitates in a romantic relationship." (That was definition number five.) Circumstances had forced them to live together in countless scores of shoddy hotel rooms over the past year, and within that their attraction to one another had deepened during that time. But where did they go from there? Sherlock still believed that married was a useless display of sentiment – didn't he?

It was a question that had plagued him frequently for the past couple of months, and he didn't know what to do with it. Only… he did too know. Questions were meant to be answered. But what _was _the answer? _Was _marriage useless and overly sentimental? _That _was the question that needed answered. Except he was beginning to think that he already knew the answer – and it was an answer that he'd surprised even himself with.

Maybe marriage wasn't _completely _useless… at least not for himself and Irene… and now that he'd decided that, what did he do about it?

* * *

"You're serious?" Irene asked, eyes wide with happy shock as she sank onto the edge of a hotel room bed in Berlin, Germany – their home for the last two days while they'd been chasing another one of Moriarty's men.

Sherlock nodded. "I am. If you're willing then that's fine. If not then nothing has to change between us. We work well together, and we can continue to do so without the added sentimentality of marrying."

"But I want to marry you!" Irene said, chuckling as she sprang to her feet and threw her arms around him before kissing him fiercely.

* * *

_Two days later_

"Las Vegas, Nevada," Irene nearly laughed as she boarded a departure plane with Sherlock at her heels as she spoke to him. "I can't believe that we just did something that cliché!"

"It's one of the quickest methods of marriage that I could think of, and it's just as valid as a white dress and a church with a man of God. Though… if you'd rather have that, it could be arranged once disposing of Moriarty's network is behind us."

The offer was voiced with a healthy dose of misgiving, but Irene was warmed by the fact that he would be willing to do that for her at all.

She took his hand as they settled into their seats on the plane, declaring, "I want nothing of the sort so long as we're husband and wife."

"And so we are," Sherlock answered, a thread of awe in his voice as he leaned over and – true to Sherlock form – kissed her on the cheek.

* * *

_One year later_

"Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft's voice was a tickle in his ear the moment before the elder Holmes brother unlocked the chains that were keeping Sherlock on his feet.

The younger brother crumpled gracelessly to the floor, mentally cursing the fact that Mycroft got to see him this way. Mycroft didn't seem to care one way or the other, though, dragging Sherlock indelicately to his feet, out of the building, and into the cab of a waiting pile of parts that passed as a truck. Getting into the driver's seat for what Sherlock thought might be the first time in his life, Mycroft drove like a maniac to leave Sherlock's captors behind in the dust. The pain caused by the constant jostling was making Sherlock's vision swim, so he leaned back against the seat, groaning as he closed his eyes and forced himself to envision something pleasant. Irene's face was always his favored choice – as dear to him as John and London, but without the pang of knowing that he didn't have that anymore.

_Wait; Irene!_

Apparently he'd exclaimed the words aloud, because Mycroft rolled his eyes and said dismissively, "Anthea's picking her up from your hotel room. Don't think that I don't know about your little stoop into sentiment where The Woman is concerned."

"You knowing she's my wife and picking her up are two entirely different things."

When they'd finally driven out of the range of their "friends" and managed to relax, Mycroft glared at him. "Don't tempt me to leave her here."

"I will jump out of this moving vehicle rather than leave another partner behind," Sherlock promised him, entirely serious.

"Thereby getting left behind by your best ride back to London and possibly breaking your back in the process?

"If you made it necessary, yes."

"You really do… love… her, don't you?"

Sherlock pretended not to notice the disdainful surprise in his brother's tone as he answered with certainty, "Yes, I do."

* * *

**Hopefully you guys liked this. What do you think about another chapter?:)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Well, here's that second chapter that I'd mentioned before - reactions to Sherlock's returning with a wife. Enjoy!:)**

* * *

On their return to London, Sherlock composed an admittedly short list of people he absolutely must contact within his first twenty-four hours of being in his beloved home city.

First and foremost was Molly Hooper – the woman who had helped him fake his death, and – more importantly – looked after John while the soldier grieved for his presumably dead friend. Sherlock had said – more than once he stressed it – that there was no reason for Irene to be wary of Molly or whatever infatuation she might've once had with Irene's husband. Though skeptical at first, Irene was persuaded when Mycroft informed them that Ms. Hooper had gone and gotten engaged in Sherlock's absence. Any remaining dregs of… worry?... evaporated when Sherlock dragged Irene into Bart's at his side and introduced the two women to one another once Ms. Hooper had overcome her initial shock at seeing Sherlock again.

The second person that Sherlock found was DI Gregory – "not Gerald, Sherlock" – Lestrade, when the Scotland Yarder had conveniently been taking a smoking break in Bart's parking garage. He – like Ms. Hooper – had been happy to meet Irene, though retaining a healthy dose of surprise at the fact that Sherlock had ever married at all. He was accepting, however, and Irene knew that alone was what Sherlock needed from those he trusted most.

The third person that Sherlock revealed himself to was Mrs. Hudson, who had by far had the most… vocal… reaction of them all. Once the older woman had finally settled down and Sherlock had ascertained for certain that she wasn't going to have a heart attack – worried little adopted son of hers that he wouldn't admit to being – she was more than thrilled to give Sherlock back his old flat. And that was even _before _she was informed that Sherlock had found someone – although Irene couldn't help but laugh when the landlady had expressed surprise at the fact that Irene was "a woman."

"As opposed to a man?" Irene had asked with a barely restrained giggle of amusement at the overly bubbly woman now standing in the middle of 221b.

"Exactly," Mrs. Hudson answered unabashedly. "You have, of course, heard of Dr. John Watson?"

"Oh, I've met him," Irene nodded with the same amused smile on her face, eyes sparkling with mirth as she took the cup of the tea that Mrs. Hudson offered her. "As a matter of fact, I believe I was one of the many people who informed him that he and Sherlock were a couple."

"Sherlock turned shocked eyes to his wife then, objecting, "You didn't!"

"I did," Irene answered cheekily.

"Speaking of John," Mrs. Hudson asked. "Have you been to see him yet?"

"No," Sherlock answered. "I'm planning to head in that direction momentarily; I just wanted to get Irene settled here first."

It was Irene's turn to be surprised, blue eyes swinging towards her husband as she asked, "Don't you want me to go with you?"

"Not for this one. Since he knows who you are, I suspect a whole new set of problems will follow in finding out my wife's identity, and I'd rather deal with one thing at a time – the fact that I am alive before the fact that I have a wife. You understand, don't you?"

Yes, Irene understood, but she didn't like it. Though she and Mycroft had both tried to talk him out of the idea of surprising John in public, Sherlock's mind had remained stubbornly unchanged on the subject, and Irene just knew that he would pay for that accordingly when the time came.

* * *

Despite what Sherlock – the bloody breathing git – had anticipated as his reaction, John Watson was _not pleased_. The fact that the consulting detective was still alive was enough to make John want to kill him himself – and _then _Sherlock had let it slip at some point during the evening that he had _married _while he was away. When John had caught onto this particular tidbit of information, he'd demanded an identity – which Sherlock had stubbornly refused to give. So they'd compromised and John and Mary had decided to come back to 221b with Sherlock in order to meet this unknown Mrs. Holmes.

Sherlock stepped into the flat while John and Mary were still coming up the stairs, and that's when John heard a feminine voice from the past say, "Well, someone hates you."

_What the bloody…_ John made it to the flat's doorway and, seeing "The Woman's" sharp profile, burst out, "She's supposed to be dead!"

"Your point?" Irene asked acridly, a tender hand on Sherlock's cheek but ice in her eyes as he looked over the sociopath's shoulder at John.

"You know what? I don't even know. I don't even care. I'm leaving."

John turned to make his exit, moving to grasp Mary's elbow and take her along, but his girlfriend pulled her arm back, softly pointing out, "You wouldn't be acting this way if you didn't care, John."

"Who says I care about him anymore?" the doctor snarled.

"Well, his face wouldn't be in this state if you were actually indifferent to the situation, now would it?" Irene said.

"You said yourself that I hate him, _Mrs. Holmes_; I heard you when I was coming up the stairs."

"Why do you think that?" The hurt petulance in Sherlock's tone almost made John sorry to have hurt his old flat mate. Almost.

"Your nose and mouth," Irene answered him.

Mary didn't seem to get the reference at all, and Sherlock and John only remembered at the same moment, eyes locking guiltily on one another in the second. The first time the two men had met Irene Adler… _Somebody loves you. If I had to punch that face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth, too…_

"I…" John faltered, suddenly embarrassed for reasons that he couldn't even identify, and hating himself for it.

Because of his behavior tonight? Well, what about Sherlock Holmes behavior on practically every night of his life?! At least John had an excuse, and a pretty good one, if he did say so himself.

Suddenly the army doctor burst out with the first thing he could think of. Pointing an all but accusatory finger at "The Woman," he asked Sherlock, "Are you actually _happy _with her?!"

"I am," Sherlock replied placidly, not missing a beat despite the abrupt change of topic.

"You're… you're _sure _she's not… taking advantage of you in some way?"

"She's been my assistant for two years, John, and my wife for half that time. There's nothing of wrongdoing towards me in our relationship, I promise."

"Well," John bit the inside of his cheek, surveying the picture that Sherlock and Irene made - the detective was clinging to his wife's hand, subconsciously it would seem, in the uncertainty of the emotionally-charged moment, and her other hand had fallen from his cheek to rest comfortingly on his shoulder. Comfortable - and in love - with one another. "Well… good." John took a deep breath, releasing the evening's fury with it so that he could truly mean the words he said. "That's good, then. I'm happy for you, Sherlock."


End file.
